


This Is Hungry Work

by Daena



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Cannibalism, M/M, Murder Husbands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-15
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-30 14:54:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3941005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daena/pseuds/Daena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Things go differently with Randall Tier and Freddie Lounds, and Will embraces his darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Is Hungry Work

Hannibal Lecter is a man of wealth and taste. This is ironic for many reasons, not the least of which is that Hannibal is clearly the devil himself. Will has no doubts or reservations about this at all, because as they stand in Hannibal's well-appointed kitchen, looking at Randall Tier's body stretched out on the table, the expression on Hannibal's face is almost beatific.

  
Will's blood is still howling through his veins, flooded with adrenaline from the attack, a hundred emotions slowly dying in him like embers. He isn't sure what he thought to achieve with this, but Hannibal's eyes are alight and lovely and frightening all at once and Will thinks this is worth the hour's drive it took to get here and all the danger he put himself in in the process.

  
Will is spinning, falling endlessly through space. He isn't sure if he is orbiting Hannibal, or Hannibal is orbiting him. But he can't escape those eyes, that faint smile sharper than a scalpel. It doesn't matter what he does, or where he goes. The moment he'd made the decision to bring Randall Tier to Hannibal he had shackled them together with a bond that all the distance and psychotherapy in the world can't break now.

  
_I know him. I see him. That's what he always wanted. Isn't that what I want too?_

  
Will takes the knife, and begins to slice the ginger.

* * *

  
Hannibal is an enigma. He is always immaculately dressed and perfectly poised, sleek and elegant and far more cultured than Will will ever be. Will's clothes are shabby and his hair is mussed; there is always dog fur on his pants and he is a cluster of twitches and tics and shaking hands, like an addict in constant withdrawal. Hannibal has the most exquisite manners and the world's best poker face, and he probably sharpens his cheekbones in his spare time - when he isn't killing people, preparing their flesh in fancy foreign dishes, and feeding them to his guests.

The man seems a total contradiction, but the truth is that Will can almost understand him. He can't pinpoint how Hannibal got to be the way he is, but that doesn't matter. He knows the way he sees the world - people are pigs, and he despises rudeness. He would kill a barista for poor service, or the first flautist of an orchestra simply to improve the sound. The meat is the best part of them, and when Hannibal holds their organs in his expert hands and slices, seasons, cooks - he transforms them into something beautiful and valuable, something worth far more than their lives.

  
Will has had Hannibal Lecter in his head, and now he won't leave. But it works both ways. He's a part of Hannibal now too.

  
"Will."

  
He looks up, across the table and into Hannibal's eyes. They are the colour of dark honey, but there are flecks of deep red in them. The left has a streak of red radiating outward from the inky swell of his pupil. "Sorry," he says. "I guess I'm more tired than I thought." He drains the last couple sips from his glass of wine. It is a crisp merlot, and pairs beautifully with Randall Tier's thigh. "The food was, as always, excellent."

  
Hannibal smiles in his usual minimalist way - a slight crinkling around the eyes and an impression of warmth and little else. "Is this going to become a habit, Will? You bringing the meat?"

  
"Do you want it to be?" Will asks it boldly, because the answer can only be yes. "You'll have to let me know if you have any particular preferences."

  
Hannibal tilts his head ever so slightly, and then rises smoothly from the table. "More wine?"

  
"No thanks," Will says, and then his brain decides he isn't ready to leave yet. They have crossed so many lines here tonight. He is revelling in the moment, a little. He wants it to last. "But I would like a glass of scotch."

  
This answer pleases Hannibal. He produces a bottle of some fantastically expensive and aged whiskey, telling Will about its origins as he pours. The words flow in and out of Will's ears. He focuses on Hannibal's hands. Large, broad, strong hands. The hands of a surgeon, a killer, a master chef. Hands that had so recently cleaned and bound the cuts on Will's knuckles carefully, gently.

  
He takes the glass when it is offered, and their fingers brush. His eyes meet Hannibal's, and the connection is electric. "I'm told you play the harpsichord," Will says apropos of nothing. "Would you play for me?"

  
This pleases Hannibal too, as Will knew it would. "I will, if you like."

  
He follows Hannibal into the living room. His hands throb lightly, nowhere near as much as they will tomorrow when the events of today sink in properly. Will has killed a man and delivered him to Hannibal Lecter's table, helped to prepare his flesh and dined on him willingly. Hannibal sits before the harpsichord, and Will knows - this is a courtship. It is a seduction.

  
He always knew, but he had never truly understood what it meant. An ordinary man might write a song to woo a lover, but Hannibal sent a man to kill him. He wanted to see what Will would do, if Will was prepared to kill, whether he would come to lay Randall Tier at Hannibal's feet. And so he did, as a cat lays a dead mouse before its owner. A proving, a trophy, a gift.

  
But it's about more than that. As all of Hannibal's murders are, it's about transformation. Will is hatching from the chrysalis, he is _becoming_. He is becoming a killer, as he has always known and feared he would. But right now there is no fear. He is drained of it. There is only calm, a terrible serenity, and Will closes his eyes to let Hannibal's music wash over him.

  
_He wrote this for me_ , Will thinks, because it must be true. Hannibal is infatuated with him, obsessed with him. To play another's music for him would be derivative and unworthy, and Hannibal is nothing if not exacting. The notes sparkle in the air, delicate and lovely and dark. Will doesn't open his eyes as the music winds around him to caress him like a lover, but he can feel the weight of Hannibal's gaze, can almost taste the longing in it.

  
The melody comes to a head and shatters like glass. The fragments swirl in Will's head, reflecting the chaos of his mind off of every tiny shard. He takes a breath and pushes them aside, sweeps the bubbling madness back into the recesses of his skull. Tomorrow he will sort and file, but tonight he will just be.

  
When the last few sounds have faded into silence, Will opens his eyes. Hannibal is watching him. "Where did you go, Will?" he asks softly.

  
"I was right here," Will says, "with you." Hannibal's expression doesn't change, but his eyes seem brighter for a moment. "That was beautiful. When did you write it?"

  
"I began it shortly after our first breakfast. It is yet unfinished. Perhaps it will never be finished. It will evolve, like you." The corner of Hannibal's mouth curves upward slightly.

  
"Have you played it for Alana?" Will swirls the amber whiskey in his glass.

  
"No," Hannibal says. "It was not something meant to be shared with her."

  
"You share rather a lot with her, don't you?" Will lets the jealousy touch his words. He sips the whiskey, smooth and smoky.

  
"How does that make you feel?"

  
Will doesn't answer. Instead, he says, "I imagine she's a poor substitute. Sweet, blind Alana. So eager to see the best in everyone even if it means closing her eyes to the truth. She can't see you as you are, Hannibal. She wouldn't appreciate your...proclivities."

  
Hannibal has turned on the harpsichord bench so he is facing Will. "And you do?"

  
Will laughs, just the barest exhalation. "I _know_ you, Hannibal. She'll never know you. That's a gift you can't even try to give her. Do you think she'd ever _bring the meat_?" He traces the rim of the glass slowly, with one finger. "You knew I had encephalitis and you kept it from me."

  
There is silence for a long moment, and then Hannibal says, "Are you going to ask me why?"

  
"No. I know why. You wanted me vulnerable so you could explore my mind, so I would rely on you. You drove a wedge between me and Alana, between me and Jack, you made me think I couldn't trust myself. You want me all to yourself, don't you?" Will looks up and meets Hannibal's eyes, and they are dark and gleaming with pride and hunger. "You want to mould me into a killer." But it's wrong, even as he says it. "No, not mould me, that's too simplistic and unrefined. After all, what's the fun in forcing someone? You prefer persuasion, don't you? Manipulation. Brute force is so gauche. No, you never force, that isn't your style. You clear the floor, you set the music, and then you wait for someone to dance. You want to guide me to embrace the darkness you can sense within me. You want to witness my becoming. Would you like to see me kill, Hannibal?"

  
No more metaphors, and the look on Hannibal's face makes Will's mouth dry. "Would you like me to watch you, Will?" he asks, so softly.

  
"Yes," Will says, and he means it. "I think I would."

  
Hannibal rises, and joins Will on the couch. He smells of some expensive aftershave, notes of sandalwood and who knows what else. Beneath that is wine, and the spices of the food, and something warm and compelling. Hannibal turns slightly, and his knee touches Will's. "How would you do it?"

  
Will answers almost dreamily, "With my hands."

  
"Like you killed Randall Tier."

  
"Yes."

  
"Visceral. Violent. Cathartic."

  
"Necessary," Will says. "He deserved it."

  
"Would you be a vigilante, Will? Killing people because they deserve it?"

  
Will gives a half-shrug, and takes another sip of the whiskey. "You do it because they deserve it. You just have your own definition of deserve. You're hardly a vigilante."

  
"But you would kill others who killed."

  
Will turns his head and their eyes meet. "It's more fun to hunt a predator than prey, don't you think?"

  
Hannibal appreciates this, but doubts it. "It's a way for you to keep your morality."

  
Will snorts without meaning to. "Morality," he says with amusement. "I wanted to pound Randall Tier's face into flour, to crack his ribs and tear his entrails from inside him and leave them strewn across my floor."

  
"Because he attacked you. He hurt your dog. He made an enemy of you."

 

" _You_ made him my enemy," Will says pointedly, and then drains the drink and sets aside the glass. "Do you know why I brought him here?"

  
"To show me you knew," Hannibal says. "To show me what you'd done."

  
"Yes. But it was more than that. It was a gift. It was something we could share. You understand me, Hannibal. You don't treat me like fine china. I could scour the length and breadth of this world a thousand times and never find that again." Hannibal's knee against his is making his leg tingle, and Will is slowly rubbing his hands up and down his thighs in response. "Usually I'm the one figuring out people. I get inside their heads. And I've done that here, I know I have. But I've had you in mine too. And I can't get you out, Hannibal. I can't stop thinking about you. It's like you have a hand on my wrist and you're leading me down the rabbit hole, and I - I don't know where I'm going except it's a terrible dark place but I don't even care because I'm with you."

  
Hannibal's hand curls around the back of Will's neck. It is warm and dry and strong, but his grip is gentle. "Will," he says softly. "I will never leave you."

  
It's a promise, a threat, a prayer. Will's heart is pounding. He shuts his eyes. "What if they catch you?"

  
"You know I'll never let that happen."

  
"But what if?" Will opens his eyes again and looks at Hannibal, whose eyes are horribly tender.

  
"I promise you," Hannibal says, "so long as you are alive, you will never be able to hide from me."

  
It should terrify him, but it doesn't. Hannibal won't hurt him unless he has to, won't kill him unless he has to. And he knows what Hannibal wants, and so he knows how to keep himself safe. _Safe_. The very word is a joke. Will is anything but safe, in any meaning of the word.

  
"Good," Will says heavily, and lets his head fall sideways. His forehead collides with Hannibal's jaw, and leans there. He can hear the momentary catch in Hannibal's slow, steady breathing, is surrounded by the intoxicating smell of him. "Good."

  
The fingers behind Will's neck comb through the curls at the base of his skull, and they sit there in silence for some time. Will drinks in the closeness, the faint prickle of stubble against his forehead. Behind his eyelids he watches the lines get more and more blurry as waves of crimson, foaming blood wash over them. Sharp black hooves, almost delicate in their careful steps across the sand. Feathers ruffle in the breeze, and Will is no longer afraid to look at the beast that once terrified him. It has an aching beauty he never let himself see before. It wears Hannibal's face, and his own. Will can no longer tell them apart.

  
"I should do something with the body," Will says, reluctant to break the moment.

  
The fingers keep stroking. "How did you feel when you killed him?"

  
Will turns his head ever so slightly to press his face against Hannibal's neck. The intimacy is heady. Will can feel Hannibal's pulse against his lips. "Alive," he whispers. "More alive than I've ever felt."

  
"Then you owe Randall Tier a debt." Hannibal's voice rumbles through his throat and Will's lips. "How will you repay him?"

  
The answer comes unbidden, natural as the winter snow. "I will transform him," Will whispers, and then sits up. Hannibal's hand loosens on the back of his neck but doesn't move, not yet. "Is it all right if I sleep here tonight?"

  
"Of course," Hannibal says mildly, but Will can tell that it delights him.

  
"Good." Will stretches his limbs. The exhaustion is fading from them, replaced with a sense of purpose. "I'll be back soon, I think."

  
Hannibal finally releases him, watching Will rise to his feet. "Do you need anything?"

  
_Tools. Implements. Help_. Will shakes his head. "I've got it covered. You don't have to wait up."

* * *

  
He transforms Randall Tier with his hands. It is raw and brutal and animal, as befits the man himself. Will is careful not to leave any evidence behind. He knows that in a few hours he will be standing here again with Hannibal and Jack and the crime scene techs, profiling himself. Profiling Hannibal. Aren't they the same thing now?

* * *

  
The door is open, as it was before; Hannibal's hubris in action. He is a predator and others are prey - the wolf never protects himself from the sheep.

  
Will locks it behind him and takes a shower. Hannibal's soap, Hannibal's shampoo. He tilts his head back under the hot water and inhales the ocean of scents. He is swimming in a killer, thinks he might be drowning in him. But Will knows drowning won't bring death, not for him. He's more than a killer. He's a hundred killers, shadows and ghosts and twisted memories of killers howling for space in his brain, but above them all is Hannibal, beautiful and terrifying.

  
There are clothes on the bed in the guest room, soft pants and a cashmere sweater in deep maroon, the colour of the red in Hannibal's eyes. It will look like blood dripping off him. He slides them on, feels the soft caress against his skin like a kiss. Wearing Hannibal's clothes. Sleeping in Hannibal's house.

  
Will crawls into bed. The sheets are obscenely soft. He doesn't lock the door. He doesn't need to. They're in this together now.

* * *

  
"Will." He opens his eyes. Hannibal's hand is warm on his shoulder. "Jack called."

  
"Did he?" Will sits up. He doesn't recall having any nightmares. The sheets beneath him are dry. "I didn't hear my phone."

  
"You were in a very deep sleep," Hannibal says. "I didn't want to wake you, but Jack needs us."

  
"I bet he does," Will says wryly. "My clothes -"

  
"Are right here." Hannibal gestures with his chin to a chair. Will's clothes from last night hang neatly over the back, freshly laundered and pressed. "I have already had breakfast. You can eat on the way."

  
"You're too good to me," Will says, and the corner of Hannibal's mouth twitches.

* * *

  
The eggs are delicious, perfectly seasoned and bursting with tomatoes and mushrooms and pieces of Randall Tier. Will spoons them into his mouth as Hannibal drives. "Jack will have questions."

  
"No doubt," Hannibal says. "But you were in my spare bedroom all night, which I locked from the outside for your safety in case your sleepwalking returned. The injuries to your hands are from a night terror where you tried to murder the floor."

  
"He'll have more questions than just that," Will says. "I tried to have you killed."

  
"So you did." Hannibal shrugs. "But we're past that, aren't we? You've accepted that I am not who you thought I was. I've forgiven you. You've resumed your sessions. I think you're making excellent progress."

  
"Alana won't buy it."

  
"She wants to see the best in you," Hannibal says. "So show it to her."

  
"And what will you be showing Alana?" It sounds slightly more caustic than Will intended.

  
Hannibal raises an eyebrow. "You sound almost angry."

  
"Almost?" Will closes the container and wipes his mouth with a napkin. "Angry isn't the right word. Annoyed, maybe. She has no place in this."

  
Hannibal catches something in Will's voice. "You're jealous," he says slowly. "But not because of Alana. You're jealous _of_ Alana."

  
Will realizes it truly at the same time Hannibal does. He gives a long slow exhalation, and then the Baltimore Museum of Art and History looms before them. "We'll talk about this later," he says.

* * *

  
Jack greets Hannibal, and turns to Will with no small measure of suspicion behind his eyes. "You didn't answer your phone."

  
"I didn't hear it ring," Will answers truthfully. "What is this?"

  
Price and Zeller are in the background, swabbing and examining and taking photos. Junior crime scene techs and officers mill around them. Will can't see past Jack, but he doesn't really need to.

"I need to talk to you for a moment." Jack takes Will's elbow and guides him away from Hannibal, out of earshot. "What are you doing, Will? Not long ago you were very insistent that Hannibal Lecter was the Chesapeake Ripper."

  
Will sighs. "Look, Jack - I had encephalitis. Chilton gave me drugs and 'treatment' -" Will makes air quotes around the word with his fingers, because Chilton is a bumbling incompetent who would try to kill a fly with a sledgehammer. "I don't think it's surprising that I was extremely confused. I thought things that make no sense. They made sense to me at the time, and now they don't. I've apologized. Hannibal's accepted my apology. We've resumed therapy." He looks up and meets Jack's eyes. They're worried, wary, hopeful. "I need to get back to work, Jack."

  
"Alana Bloom says you shouldn't," Jack says. "And maybe she's right. All of this violence and horror might be damaging to your mind."

  
"My mind is already as damaged as it's going to get." Will rubs the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses. "Jack, this is the only thing that feels normal. Being out in the field, helping people, catching killers."

  
"Having them in your head, Will? I was supposed to protect you, and I failed."

  
"You didn't fail. No one knew I had encephalitis." _No one but Hannibal_. "It made me look and act like a crazy person. So you thought I was crazy, and a murderer, and I wasn't. Between that and Chilton's indelicate ministrations I drew some incorrect conclusions and I tried to have Hannibal killed. I was wrong. He's forgiven me. I've forgiven you for being so ready to believe I was a murderer. It's all water under the bridge."

  
"You spent the night there," Jack presses, undaunted. "Why?"

  
"Hannibal invited me to dinner." Will shrugs. "I may have had too much scotch."

  
"And what happened to your hands?"

  
"I'm not sleepwalking anymore that I know of, but I still have night terrors. Hannibal heard me screaming and found me punching the floor." Will flexes his fingers and winces. "Is there something you want to ask me, Jack?"

  
"I want you to profile this," Jack says, and finally steps aside so Will can survey his handiwork.

  
Randall Tier's extremities have been mounted on the skeleton of a cave bear. The yellowed bones are massive, so it is an incomplete work at best. His legs and arms have been pulled over the bear's paws like the fingers of a glove. His head, minus the bottom jaw, sits atop the huge muzzle. Looking at it now feels different, so Will doesn't have to keep recognition out of his face - there isn't any. He observes the arrangement clinically, steps back to frame the entire scene in his vision.

  
Will takes off his glasses, closes his eyes, and the pendulum swings.

* * *

  
"It's a farce," Jack is saying. "He's mocking him."

  
"No," Will says, and opens his eyes to look into Randall Tier's, cloudy in death. "It's not a mockery. It's a celebration."

  
"A transformation," Hannibal suggests.

  
"The killer knew him, at least enough to know about his condition. He decided to help him become the thing he desired most in death the way he never could in life. It's an assisted metamorphosis." Will looks around at the floor. "It wasn't done here. He was careful."

  
"Meticulous," Hannibal remarks, inspecting the arrangement of flesh over bone. "He's killed before?"

  
"Yes," Will agrees.

  
"Like this?" Jack asks.

  
"No, not like this. This isn't a spectacle, like the Ripper's theatrical tableaux. This was personal. A special service for Randall Tier." Will looks at the Randall-bear. "There are parts missing. Have you found the rest of him?"

  
"No," Jack says. "We haven't found his suit either."

  
"The suit has probably been destroyed," Will says. "Discarded like an old skin. Randall doesn't need it anymore."

  
"What about the organs?" Hannibal has moved to stand beside him. "This murder was rough and brutal, like one animal slaying another. The killer would not have taken them as surgical trophies."

  
Will glances at Hannibal for a fraction of a second. "Maybe he ate them."

  
"Will." It's Alana's voice. He turns to see her, pretty and put-together, blue eyes concerned and utterly disapproving. "You shouldn't be here." She looks at Jack. "I cannot believe you. How are you permitting this?" And then she turns to Hannibal. "How are _you_ permitting this?"

  
"I believe it is important to Will's recovery to be back in the field," Hannibal says, unperturbed. "After what he's been through, he needs to feel useful."

  
"I want to be here," Will says, though he knows that means nothing to Alana. "I need to feel normal again."

  
" _Normal_?" She looks at the skeleton and the pieces of Randall Tier's body. "Nothing about this is normal. Normal people don't do this. Being exposed to this kind of depravity -"

  
"I am _not_ a fragile teacup," Will snaps. Her eyes widen, but he continues, "Have you ever thought that the reason I seem to be so _unstable_ to you is because you treat me like I am? You expect me to be unstable and see signs of it in all my behaviour, and in doing so you're preventing me from making any actual progress. I know you have the best intentions, but I want to get back to work. This is my work." _This is my design_ , he does not say.

  
"Will." She takes a step forward. "I'm concerned for you. You empathize so deeply that surrounding yourself with horror -"

  
"I already have a psychiatrist." Will nods to Hannibal. "We've resumed our sessions."

  
"Will is making great strides," Hannibal says. "I am confident that he will make a full recovery from the fracturing of his mind that followed his encephalitis and incarceration. I don't blame Will for Matthew Brown. Having Frederick Chilton fumbling about in his head and administering drugs and poorly executed therapy was likely instrumental in driving Will's actions. In furtherance of his recovery I believe it is important that we treat him relatively normally and not with excessive caution or unnatural restraint. Let us not forget that we all did Will a great disservice in not trusting him." He looks at Will. "As your friends, we should have known you were not a killer."

  
Will wants to laugh, but he just shakes his head. "And I shouldn't have tried to have you killed. That's all over now. If I keep dwelling on the past I can't move forward."

  
Alana is staring at them. She looks from Will to Hannibal, and she seems almost betrayed. "I cannot believe that you are countenancing this. I want to go on record as saying that I do not approve of Will being back in the field, and I don't think you should have him as a patient either. Not after what happened."

  
Hannibal just looks at her. His face is unreadable, but Will can see something frosty in his gaze. Jack gives a sigh. "Look, Will says he wants to be back in the field. Hannibal thinks it's good for him. And quite frankly, I need him here, Alana. He's saving lives."

  
"At the cost of his own!" she bursts out. "Why am I the only person here who seems at all concerned with that?"

  
"What do you want me to tell you?" Will asks her. This is beginning to grate on him, all these people discussing his mental state as though he isn't an adult, as though he isn't standing right there. _Do I really know what's best for me?_ whispers a tiny voice inside him. "I'm telling you I want to be here. No one is forcing me. I'm in therapy. I'm trying to resume my life. This is part of that. I'm telling you all of those things, but why should you believe me? After all, you kept telling me I was a killer." He glances at Jack. "Am I done here?"

  
"For now, yes," Jack says. "Sleep with your phone closer to you next time."

  
Will looks at Hannibal. "Can you drive me home?"

  
"Certainly," Hannibal says, with a gleam in his eye.

* * *

  
"You were harsh with Alana," Hannibal observes as he drives.

  
"I meant what I said." Will shrugs. "Except for the obvious lie."

  
"That you are not a killer," Hannibal says unnecessarily.

  
Will raises an eyebrow. "Try to curb your enthusiasm. I'm not in denial anymore, Dr. Lecter."

  
Hannibal keeps his eyes on the road, but Will can feel him turn all his attention to him. "You were telling me that you were jealous of Alana."

  
"No, _you_ were telling me that I was jealous of Alana." Will leans his head back against the leather seat with a sigh.

  
"Do you disagree?"

  
"No." If Hannibal wants to know more, he will have to pry it from Will. Will is trying not to think about it, but the events and sensations of the previous night are running through his head like wild mustangs. Hannibal playing the harpsichord, Hannibal's fingers in his hair, the feeling of warm breath on his scalp. Wearing his clothes. Sleeping beneath his sheets.

  
Silence follows, and Will watches the city pass by, turn slowly to the country. His mind is a stormy sea of memories and emotions clashing against each other. One by one he plucks them from the maelstrom, names them, sorts them, puts them away. He is so occupied with this task that he almost doesn't hear Hannibal say, "Is there something you want to ask me, Will?"

  
"Yes," Will's traitorous mouth responds. _This is a terrible idea. Don't say it_. "If I asked you to stop seeing Alana, would you?"

  
For a moment, Hannibal doesn't answer. "What would prompt that question?"

  
"Call it jealousy," Will says. "Say I wanted to have you all to myself."

  
More silence. "If you asked for that reason," Hannibal says eventually, "I would."

  
The Bentley turns into the drive of his little house. He imagines his dogs inside, anxious and excited. As Hannibal puts the car in park, Will looks at him. "I want you to stop seeing Alana," he says. "I want you all to myself, Hannibal."

  
Hannibal inclines his head ever so slightly. His eyes sparkle.

  
"Do you want to come in?" Will isn't sure why he asks, except that it pleases Hannibal, who switches off the engine at once.

* * *

  
The dogs greet Will at the door in a hurricane of fur and tails and frantic licks. He pats each one in turn, checks the dressing on Buster's wound, and then holds the door open for them to run outside. Hannibal allows them to sniff his hands. Will can tell he doesn't love animals, but he bears no hatred for them either. He's no psychopath. There aren't words for what Hannibal Lecter is.

  
Will shrugs off his jacket, tosses it over a chair. "Coffee?" he asks, washing his hands. _I threw up Abigail's ear in this sink. He killed her_. But something is wrong with that thought. Abigail was so important to Will. She mattered to Hannibal, too. It doesn't make sense for her to be dead. The feeling gnaws at his mind.

  
"Yes, please." Hannibal is watching him closely. "What are you thinking about?"

  
"I'm not sure just yet," Will murmurs. "The thought is incomplete. I don't want to talk it out, I just need to mull it over in my mind for a while. Give me some more time." He reaches into cupboards, pulls out cups. He bought better coffee when he came out of the hospital; Hannibal has improved his tastes, and now he can't abide that burnt stuff he used to drink before.

  
_She wasn't like Jack or Alana. Not an other. She was something I shared with you. Why would you kill her_? But it was Abigail's ear in his stomach. Still - an ear is a relatively minor thing. Hannibal might have maimed her if it suited his purposes, but death is so final. And Will knows he can be extraordinarily patient. Miriam Lass is proof of that.

  
Will prepares the coffee on automatic, his mind flitting back and forth. He pours just milk for both of them, as it would be a sin to adulterate such flavour with sugar. He moves around the counter to hand the cup to Hannibal, and their fingers brush. It sends a shiver up Will's spine. "Sorry about the state of things," he says, waving to the ratty furniture. "You're going to get fur everywhere."

  
"I have had worse things on my suits." Hannibal sits at Will's small table, where they once had breakfast, and Will joins him. "You are upset with me."

  
"Yes." Will doesn't bother trying to hide it. "I don't want to talk about it just yet."

  
Hannibal tilts his head. "Is this about Miss Katz?"

  
_Beverly. You killed her. No,_ I _killed her. I sent her after you, and I should have known better_. Will liked her; she was the only one who had tried to help him at all. But her blood is on his hands as much as it is on Hannibal's. "No. That was as much me as you."

  
"Abigail, then." Hannibal nods. "I apologize. My curiosity sometimes gets the better of me. Take your time." He looks over to the broken window, covered by a poorly secured piece of tarpaulin. Glass litters the floor beneath it. "Randall Tier."

  
Will follows his gaze. "Yes."

  
"Would you like me to have it fixed?"

  
Will gives a wry smile. "No."

  
Hannibal stirs his coffee. "I imagine that was traumatic for you. Not just the attack, I mean. The violation of your home. Intrusion into your safe space."

  
"Do you enjoy causing me trauma, Hannibal?" Will asks.

  
"I owed it to you." Hannibal draws back one sleeve an inch so Will can see the still-livid scars from Matthew Brown's attempt at murder. "Our friends deserve what we owe them just as much as our enemies do. It is a form of honesty."

  
"He hurt my dog." Will says it with real venom. "If he had killed Buster we wouldn't have been even, Hannibal. It would have been too much, even for you." He looks up. "I would have repaid that debt in spades."

  
Hannibal smiles ever so slightly. "The reckoning you promised me. Shall there still be a reckoning, Will?"

  
"You didn't kill Abigail." The last lingering doubt evaporates at the look on Hannibal's face, and Will leaps up from the table. "You son of a bitch! All this time you _let me believe_ she was dead! _Why_?"

  
"You tell me." Hannibal sets down his coffee, watches Will with pride and hunger.

  
Will's heart is pounding with anger, with elation, with some kind of sick desire. "The time wasn't right," he says, feeling more sure with every moment. "You were waiting for the perfect moment. To spring it on me, to use my shock to convince me to - to -" He breaks off, paces across the kitchen. _Abigail is alive_. "Have you bought the plane tickets yet?"

  
And now Hannibal's smile shows his teeth, sharp and crooked. "Will," he says, so fondly. "You truly are astonishing."

  
Will stalks back to Hannibal, his mind spinning. He grabs Hannibal by the tie and hauls him to his feet. He wants to punch him in his inscrutable face and split his knuckles on those cheekbones, wants to wrap his hands around his throat and strangle Hannibal until his face turns purple and the life fades from his eyes -

  
Will kisses him.

  
It feels like drowning. It feels like coming home.

* * *

  
"Where is she?" Will asks, his voice low and trembling.

  
Hannibal's hair is falling across his forehead, the front of his shirt wrinkled where Will clenched his fists in it. His tie is askew. His lips are red and bitten and beautiful. "Safe," he says. Will is gratified to hear that he is breathless. "At my house."

  
"She's been there the whole time?"

  
"Yes." Hannibal doesn't move to straighten his own clothes; instead he reaches out and turns down Will's collar. "Are you still angry with me?"

  
"There are no words for what I am with you right now." Will runs a shaking hand back through his hair. His body is screaming with desire. He only permitted himself a kiss, but the feeling of Hannibal's hands in his hair, Hannibal's mouth sliding against his - he turns and slams his fist into the wall, and his already bruised knuckles sing with pain. "I want to see her," he says, and he sounds surprisingly calm.

  
"Do you understand why?" Hannibal looks almost vulnerable like that.

  
"Because you were lonely," Will says. He looks down at his hand, traces of fresh blood seeping from the now open cuts. "And you know - my dogs - you know I wanted a family. Somehow. And you thought you would give me that family. But first you had to take everything away from me, make me mad and blind without you, need you more than anything - shatter the teacup. Then you could make it whole again."

  
The vision of that family swims behind his eyes. _Hannibal could teach her to cook. I could teach her to fish, like I dreamed about. We could be her fathers, keep her safe. Teach her_. Will knows what else Hannibal would teach her. _But she already knows that, doesn't she? She knows how to hunt. Garret Jacob Hobbs taught her that long ago_.

  
Hannibal takes his hand. A droplet of blood is winding its way down Will's finger, and Hannibal intercepts it, gathering the redness on his own fingertip. "My gift to you," he says quietly. "Do you want it, Will?"

  
He could make this end differently, he thinks. He could pretend to play along and call Jack, tell him everything. But Jack won't believe him. Alana won't believe him. Fragile, crazy, unstable Will, who has swum in the minds of a thousand killers and drowned in one. The darkness is seductive, tempting, contagious. Will can feel the prickle of antlers along his spine, just as he did in the hospital.

  
_Should I open this door?_ he wonders, and he instantly knows it's the wrong question. The door is already open. _Can I close it?_ And the answer is yes. Will can close it, but the cold truth is he doesn't want to. He already understands; now he wants to be understood. And he can be, here. He doesn't have to fight. He can just embrace the darkness, let it wash over him. Let it fill him, drown the light until there is nothing left but the feathered stag of death and murder.

  
He looks at Hannibal, who has blood on his lips. Without thinking, Will leans forward and licks his own blood from Hannibal's mouth. "Yes," he says, and the weight lifts from his shoulders. His agony rises to become a crown of antlers around his head. "I want it more than anything."

  
"Then come with me," Hannibal whispers against his lips. "We can leave tonight."

  
"My dogs," Will says. "They're part of my family."

  
There is a beat, where Will can almost feel Hannibal thinking about killing them just to remove the last obstacle. But the dogs mean too much to Will, and Hannibal knows it. "Of course," Hannibal allows graciously. "The dogs come too."

  
"Good," Will says, and crushes his mouth against Hannibal's. Hands grip and teeth bite, and the taste of his blood in Hannibal's mouth is too perfect for words.

* * *

  
There is one loose end to tie up before they leave, and Will is the one to do it. Hannibal wanted to watch him work, after all, and Will is eager to show him what he's learned, how he's embraced his true nature. _Amazing how the ones we love bring out the best in us_ , Will muses, sharpening his knife.

  
Hannibal watches with avid interest as Will pops the trunk and hauls a struggling Freddie Lounds from the interior. Her hair is a froth of blood around her face, her eyes huge and horrified above the gag. She totters on shaky legs like a newborn calf as Will drags her over to a chair in his barn and pushes her down on it. She doesn't struggle too much as he lashes her legs to the chair with cable ties - she knows there's no point.

  
"Miss Lounds," he says evenly. "You've been writing some displeasing things lately. About me. About Dr. Lecter. You've been insinuating that we're some sort of serial killer couple - what was the phrase you used? _Murder husbands_?" Will shakes his head, tutting. "That's very rude, Freddie. Hannibal doesn't like rudeness. And you know what? Neither do I."

  
Will can almost smell the fear on her. Her eyes dart around the barn, searching frantically for an exit. He steps forward and pulls the gag from her mouth. She doesn't scream or try to bite him; she knows better than that.

  
"Murder husbands was inaccurate," she croaks, swallowing. She even manages to smile. "I apologize for my turn of phrase. You're not married. Are you?"

  
"I'm not a serial killer either," Will says. "And Hannibal and I have never killed anyone together. Such poor research, Freddie. It's almost like you don't care about the veracity of your information at all."

  
"Shoddy journalism, Miss Lounds," Hannibal remarks, uncapping a thermos of coffee and pouring a cup for himself. "Admittedly you've always been rather vulgar, but your last article was particularly appalling."

  
"What's to be done about that?" Will asks softly.

  
"I will write whatever you want me to write," she says. "I'll tell the world whatever you want me to tell them."

  
"Anything to be famous and rich. You tried to take advantage of Abigail Hobbs' youth and innocence. You accused me of crimes I didn't commit. Now you're dragging Hannibal's good name through the mud." Will shakes his head. "You seem to like mud, Freddie." _I may be enjoying this a bit more than necessary_.

  
She looks from him to Hannibal, and swallows again, shaking back the fall of her hair. "I will promise whatever you want me to promise," she says. "All I want is my life."

  
"Every animal's basest instinct is self-preservation," Hannibal remarks, sipping at his coffee. "But how could we be sure you will not simply tell Jack Crawford everything?"

  
"I'd have no proof," she says. "You're a man above reproach, Dr. Lecter. Will Graham is looked upon somewhat less fondly, but I don't think Jack Crawford thinks he's a murderer." Her eyes shift to Will. "My article was...ill-advised."

  
"And purposefully sensational, as always. _Murder husbands_ , really?"

  
"Puerile," Hannibal agrees, and holds the thermos out to Will. "Coffee?"

  
Will stares at Freddie Lounds, her white face, her eyes so frightened even though she's trying her absolute best to appear unruffled. _You've caused nothing but trouble. You use people and throw them away. You're a vulture, feeding on the aftermath of trauma and tragedy. You gorge yourself on pain and you twist the truth to whatever suits your ends of fame and money_.

  
"Actually," Will says quietly, "I think Freddie will have some coffee."

  
He wrenches her jaw open so swiftly and suddenly she barely has time to scream. Only a ragged choking noise emerges before the dull crack and the tearing sound as it hangs unhinged. Will turns and plucks the thermos from Hannibal's hand, and leans forward over the wreck of Freddie's face.

  
The coffee bubbles and froths, hot droplets flying up into Will's face. He's undeterred, focused on his task, holding her head back with a fistful of curls and pouring steadily with the other. Her body jerks, her eyes roll wildly, but now that her breath is gone she is silent as the grave. Over Will's shoulder, Hannibal is perfectly still, his human veil shed now, watching with predatory lust. Will looks down into Freddie Lounds' face with the intensity of a lover as the light fades from her eyes. Her body shudders to a halt, and her muscles slacken in death.

  
Will releases his grip on her hair. Maybe it hasn't set in what he's done yet. _Maybe you'll wake up in the morning and be horrified and kill yourself_ , a tiny voice whispers. He glances at Hannibal. "Would you get the cooler for me?"

  
"Of course." Hannibal looks utterly enchanted. He lifts a small cooler packed with ice from the backseat of the car.

  
Will draws the knife and slits Freddie's shirt, exposing her pale chest. He slices through the flesh, peels it back with his hands, feels through the hot glistening viscera beneath her ivory ribs, and cuts her lungs free - if not quite with a surgeon's skill, certainly far more cleanly than a layman. "Coffee marinade," he says, and drops the pink organs into the cooler. "I'm sure you have a recipe somewhere."

  
Hannibal smiles at him, and Will's murderous black heart skips a beat. A bolt of whimsy strikes him, and he pulls a strand of long red hair from Freddie's head. He reaches for Hannibal's left hand, and carefully ties the hair around his ring finger, finishing it with a bow.

  
Hannibal's eyes are glittering with fathomless hunger. "Did you just tie the knot?" he asks lightly, but his voice is a little husky.

  
Will knows he's blushing. "Too much?"

  
"Never." Hannibal tips his chin up and kisses him, and for a long moment the rest of the world ceases to exist but for Hannibal's mouth warm on his own, the taste of coffee, the smell of his expensive aftershave.

  
Will is lightheaded when Hannibal steps back. "Just give me ten minutes to arrange this properly and we can go," he says. "I think you might need to make an early dinner. This is hungry work."

* * *

 

EPILOGUE

  
"Dad. _Dad_." Abigail's voice wakes him. "We're here."

  
She smiles at him when he opens his eyes. She looks happy - a little sunburnt, which is to be expected from their time on the Mediterranean - but much more at peace than she'd been in America. Garret Jacob Hobbs doesn't haunt Will anymore, and it seems he doesn't haunt Abigail either. Her sun-streaked hair is growing out of the bob she'd cut it in. She'd asked them for permission to get a mohawk and dye it purple - one of those teenage rebellion things, but he and Hannibal are both adamant that outrageous styles are best left for eighteen, and she seems to see the sense of that.

  
Winston nudges Will's elbow impatiently from the backseat, and Will rouses himself to get out and open the door. The dogs pile out, along with Abigail, and he looks up at the lovely chateau where they'll be staying until they decide to move again. The drive is wide and lined with neatly trimmed rosebushes, and there is an ancient, storied feel to the stonework. It is classy and worldly and elegant as hell.

  
Hannibal, who has just emerged from the car, is also looking elegant as hell. Gone are the plaid suits and paisley ties, replaced by simpler, more finely tailored clothing in solid colours. At the moment he is wearing a sky blue shirt with charcoal trousers, and Will would love nothing more than to take them off of him with his teeth.

  
"Does this meet with your approval?" Hannibal asks, ignoring the two dogs frolicking around his feet. Abigail has already found a stick and is trying to play fetch with Shelly and Buster; the others seem more interested in exploring.

 

"It's beautiful," Will says. "Rural, lots of room for the dogs, not too far from a good university so Abigail can visit on the weekends. I love it."

  
"I thought you might. Our nearest neighbours are almost twenty kilometres away. I paid them a visit last week. They seem polite. I don't anticipate any unpleasantness from them about our marriage or our daughter."

  
It's been almost four months since they ironed out the last of the legal details, but hearing Hannibal say it still warms his heart. "Good," Will says. "Maybe one day we can have them over for dinner."

  
Hannibal smiles with just a hint of teeth. "If you would like that."

  
"I owe Freddie Lounds a debt, you know." Will reaches out and tangles his fingers with Hannibal's as they walk up the drive, Abigail's laughter ringing across the grass. "I _love_ being murder husbands with you."


End file.
